Though Worlds Apart
by ariscamelth
Summary: This was unreal. He had been tasked to slay a dragon that apparently spewed out flames hotter than the sun, he had to deal with two-and-a-half difficult people as party members, and he had little to no experience in the real world—never mind trying to be the knight everyone expected him to be. How was he supposed to take this development seriously? [RPG!AU]


**Full Summary:**

This was unreal. He had been tasked to slay a dragon that apparently spewed out flames hotter than the sun, he had to deal with two-and-a-half difficult people as party members, and he had little to no experience in the real world—never mind trying to be the knight everyone expected him to be. How was he supposed to take this development seriously?

"So," Cyrus started, "you're telling me you chose an ordinary passerby by random and thought he'd be a suitable candidate for a hero who would save the world."

Luna stared at him. "Yes."

[ **RPG!AU** – _Cyrus-centric/Luna, other pairings_ – **action, adventure, friendship, humour, romance** – _unedited NaNoWriMo, major OOCness?_ ]

* * *

 **Chapter 1: Slimy Business**

Knight school would do you good, they said. It'd give you an edge against other young men, they said. More prestige, better rewards. Even just graduating from the academy would give you credentials others could only ever dream of having.

What they didn't talk about was unemployment.

Even if you came up at the top of your batch—highest marks and all—it didn't ensure you with a position. Only the ones that were given internships during training found work right after graduation; the lucky ones, everyone called them. Damn right they were lucky. With all the up and coming knights in the world, and all the older, stubborn ones that refused to let go of their jobs, there was only so much open field for the rest of them.

Cyrus checked the guild notifications for the third time that day. Four months fresh into the adult world, and still no ounce of luck with the occupation of his dreams. He wasn't exactly unemployed, working at a local stable that didn't have bad pay, but he didn't study knighthood for ten years just to clean up…horse dung.

If he was going to spend the rest of his life buried in equine manure, then going to the capital's renowned knight academy was simply a waste of his time and his parent's money.

Money, _money_. He studied in that school to _get_ money. Born into a peasant family, the least he could do for having his parents raise up their gold, barely scrape by for years, and send their only child to a building for a decade with minimal contact was give back the money he owned, with interest.

But no. The real world just had to be difficult. Lady Fortuna always had a field day when spring was around the corner.

He sighed, running a hand through his spiky hair. "Miss Jarden's cat is missing. Again. Mr. Trut needs help fixing his roof. Help wanted to get rid of pesky rabbits chewing up someone's rose garden… By the gods, did everyone else steal the bigger missions, or is this place just drama-free?"

"Are you seriously complaining about the well-being of this city? Men are such pricks."

Cyrus twirled around to face the person—woman, by the sound of her voice—that just insulted him. Irritation washed over as the piling stress started to tumble down. Who was she to say that? Why the hell would a stranger say something so judgmental? "What? Well excuse me I need a job. You know, a _living_? To _survive_?"

She flinched at his annoyed tone, crossing her arms as she huffed. A cloak and hood enveloping her body, Cyrus could only see her scowl, the ends of her red pigtails, the mud-caked soles of her boots, and a sword hanging by her waist. "Don't get so defensive!" She mumbled the next part to herself, although he could hear it clear as day: "Geez, you'd think the safety of the people would be more important than a measly salary."

Cyrus chose to ignore it, calming down as the guilt started to chip in. "Look, I didn't mean to snap at you," he said, as sincere in his apology as he could. "It's been a rough while and I really do need the money. Not everyone's fortunate enough to get by without some hard work, you know…"

"Eugh, fine. Point proven. No need to apologize." The woman rolled her eyes. "Why don't you just pick out one of the notices off the board then? You can't be picky for money, if you're desperate for it."

"I studied in knight school." That made her eyebrows rise. "I'm looking for a permanent job that at least involves some form of knight…ingness."

"Fired or just graduated?"

 _Okay_ , out of all the questions she could have asked, Cyrus wasn't expecting that one. "Second one," he answered.

"So no experience whatsoever, huh?" The way she grunted in exasperation made him frown. "You're a greenhorn. Newbie. What makes you think others will want to hire you, compared to all the other senior knights out there? They probably think you'll tuck tail the moment you're out in action."

This was sounding oddly like a job interview. And more importantly, why was he _having_ this conversation with someone he had never met? "Because I won't."

"Won't what?"

"I won't run away," he continued. "You might not believe me, but I stick to dignity and honour. I _am_ a knight, after all. If I wasn't prepared for the dangers that came with being one, why would I train to be something I wasn't fully committed to? Besides, if people don't even give me a chance, how can I even _get_ experience?"

Well, this was embarrassing.

He was spilling out his life values to someone who probably didn't want to hear it at all. Great. Cyrus knew this woman for a whole two minutes and she was going to think he was one of those naive guys that trusted everyone they met. What the hell. He wasn't even like this, normally. Why was this happening now? Was he so emotionally-charged that he'd be willing to tell her childhood stories that no one but his mother would be happy to say?

She only stood there, tapping her boots on the wooden planks of the bar. Half a minute later, she snorted and shoved a piece of parchment in his hands. "Consider yourself fortunate then, noob. I expect you to complete this by no later than sunset three days from now. I'll see you here then. Or not, if you were born unlucky."

With that, she left him to his own devices, cloak swishing behind her in grand exit.

Cyrus could only stare after her in confusion.

* * *

"Look, kid, for the last time, I ain't giving out these weapons for free. I've got five mouths to feed, for gods' sake."

Cyrus groaned. "I'm not asking for free, Sir, I just need a discount. Or split my payment up for three months. _Any_ thing's fine, as long as I don't have to pay at full right now. I really need this stuff. Please."

"If I did that with every man that asked," the man gruffly responded, "I'd be out of business. I can't, kid. Rules are rules, and I'm afraid I'm sticking to these ones."

Another groan escaped him. Glancing around the shop, his eyes tried to avoid looking at the metalwork—which was very, very, _very_ hard to do—and landed on the wooden side of the shop. "What about those?" he asked, pointing. "They look like my budget."

"Those wooden things? Five silvers apiece."

He counted the money he had with him. Ten silvers, twenty-one coppers. Drat. He still needed to buy vulneraries after this. Should he take the sword or shield then? Narrowing his eyes, Cyrus weighed the pros and cons of each purchase. Sword: could attack with something substantially harder than a branch. Shield: could protect him from receiving severe bodily harm and possibly prevent him from landing into the resident infirmary.

…That just meant he didn't have to get hit, didn't he?

"I'll take the sword."

Ringing up his order, the shopkeeper asked, "What do you even need this for? You a new adventurer in the works? I've seen you at Barty's, around the horses. A lad like you doesn't need this unless you're going exploring."

Cyrus cringed, fake smile plastered on his lips. "Oh, well, hahaha. About that. I mean, I guess I am exploring. Sorta. If you call killing King Slime 'exploring', that is."

* * *

Three-quarters of a day later, he finally finished all his shopping. It was also coincidentally nighttime, which many would consider too late for training, but Cyrus couldn't care less. Acquiring night vision would be cool, after all.

Sadly, blindly swinging at ferns wasn't.

"Gods," he said, whacking the leafy plant for the who-knows-how-manyeth time. "I must be going insane." Pausing to rub the tiredness from his eyes, he sat down on a nearby tree stump. "Smacking vegetation to kingdom come. What helpful training."

Maybe it was the lack of sleep, but he was seriously being snarky today. Every since he met that woman in the guild, his tongue seemed to hold more silver than it usually did.

Speaking of that woman, she had requested a weird mission for Cyrus: Kill King Slime of Merisma Forest by three day's sunset. The _Slime_ King. Gods above, why would she want _him_ to kill a low-level boss? By her garb, though disguised by her cloak, she seemed like a mercenary. The sword by her holster was hard to miss, in any case, as were the daggers hidden by the sides of her boots…

So what motive did she have in having a 'measly, inexperienced knight' like him kill the King of Slimes?

It wasn't as if he had doubts in succeeding, because he knew he could do it if he tried—maybe—but the request was odd enough to take note of. And even then, it wasn't as if he had the experience of meeting King Slime. Was there something unexpected about it? Did it have a trick up its sleeve that a mercenary would hire him to get rid of it?

…What if it _wasn't_ just a low-level boss?

Plot twist.

Cyrus closed his eyes for a moment before snapping them open. Alright then, he had to be prepared. There was no use underestimating the enemy, unless he wanted it to be his downfall. He'd have to do some reconnaissance work tomorrow then, just to see what it was truly capable of.

Standing up, he swung his sword a couple more times, practicing a few more attacks that he needed to polish up. Four months of un-knightly work made him a bit rusty; he just hoped it wouldn't cause any…lasting repercussions.

He'd best be going to bed soon too, considering he had to go to the stables in the morning. Rest would be important for his early day. Plus, he needed some time later to stock up some materials he might need for his Merisma Forest escapade.

A sudden movement caught his eye. Past the bushes and into the trees, there was a shadowy figure hiding behind the pines a few ways away. Or at least, Cyrus thought it was a shadowy figure. It was too dark to know exactly.

Still, curious, he grabbed his sword and got ready in battle stance. It was probably something harmless since he was at the forest's edge—a rabbit perhaps, maybe even a slime—but you could never be too sure, you know? With any luck (or misfortune, depending on how you saw it), it might even be his target itself.

Okay, his hopes might've been too high. There was no way the Slime King would've been caught alive so close to the forest borders.

Cyrus tried to sneak towards the figure, operative word being 'tried'. He was a knight, not a thief, and being sneaky was not something he was well-versed in. So it was to no one's surprise that a twig snapped under his steps, and the mysterious shadow fled away from the scene in an instant.

Oh well. Cyrus wouldn't have been able to do much in his state anyway, half-tired, half-blind. If anything, it was lucky for _him_ it fled, unless it really was a rabbit or slime.

But of course it wasn't. After all, if he had seen the supposed outline of it peeking past the tree bark, it was most definitely bigger than any hare or blob of jelly. Either that, or he was just seeing things. He _was_ exhausted.

Staring into the darkness for a second more, he shook his head and began to trudge back home. Priorities had to be set, and chasing after whatever the heck it was wasn't first, sleeping was. Next was planning out how to stalk a slime, but Cyrus believed he could make up an idea before tomorrow afternoon.

Now, if only that nagging, prickling feeling on his back would go away.

* * *

Day Two of his bounty hunting mission felt awfully mundane compared to yesterday.

For one, there weren't any weird women, which made things much more normal in comparison. Cleaning stables, restocking water troughs, and feeding horses carrots were just a part of Cyrus's everyday four-month routine. Half a day pretty much went by in rapid pace. Clean, restock, feed, repeat; clean, restock, feed repeat. An extra step from washing hands, sure, but it wasn't as if it was way harder.

It was the other half of the day that caused a fair share of problems.

Contrary to what he said yesterday, he didn't come up with a plan. Well, he did. Kind of. He had a plan, but it entailed just barging into the forest in search for the Slime King and figuring out what to do then, and that wasn't exactly the _plan_ plan he had in mind.

But it was better than nothing. Which was why Cyrus was currently crawling under a thick cover of foliage, two lines of green-brown tint smeared on his cheeks, deciphering where in the world was Merisma's King of Slimes.

* * *

Two hours later, he finally had a trail. Literally. He found a line of red slime oozing on the forest floor the width of three wheelbarrows, smelling eerily like rotten carcass, and if that didn't scream boss material, he didn't know what did.

So he followed it. What else was he supposed to do? It was the first lead he had all day, so he might as well use it or lose it.

The trail twisted through the undergrowth, past the intermediate forest area, and into the deeper parts known to humans as 'Inner Merisma Forest'. Uncreative, true, but it proved it's point, and that's all that was really needed.

But it didn't stop there. No, it went even deeper and deeper until the trees towered above him like stacked windmills, sun barely seen through the forest cover. It was semi-dark despite being mid-afternoon, and a sense of dread washed over Cyrus.

By the gods, maybe his night vision training yesterday wasn't all that useless.

Still, he trudged on, the cold chill intensifying the further he went. He couldn't even see the slime trail anymore. Was he even going the right path?

A loud rumble sounded out, like giant's feet echoing through a canyon. Squawks and ruffled wings came overhead as birds began to flee the noise, and Cyrus suddenly felt his pants legs covered in a warm, sticky liquid.

No, he didn't just piss himself. In fact, he quickly stood up and scrambled away from whatever he just crawled over. Slime ooze, probably? It explains why his clothes felt like they were _corroding before his eyes_.

Holy Anankos, the Slime King had corrosive properties. Gods. That was horrifying. Just imagine what would've happened if he rolled his entire body in it. He'd be _stark naked_ for everyone to see, and by the gods, no one needed to see that.

Another thump shook him out of his thoughts. It was drawing closer towards him, thumps getting louder and louder, and with a frown, Cyrus knew he was nowhere ready to face King Slime. Shoot, he'd better go then. No use waiting here to reorganize his thoughts just to be killed by a slime.

Picking up his sword, Cyrus ran to the best of his abilities. He didn't care whether or not any creature heard him flee, too busy to escape imminent doom and wondering how in hell he was supposed to kill something that eroded pretty much anything it touched.

Well crap, he was screwed.

* * *

The guild was utterly useless.

"King Slime? We don't get requests to kill it," the assistant guild master, Mr. Zwaldar explained. Except he was sort of yelling it from a few metres away and refused to let Cyrus come any closer to him. What was _that_ injustice about? "No one's ever been close to it since…six years ago? Now that I think about it, there was an adventurer like you who asked about the Slime King as well. She went to Inner Merisma, slayed it, and brought back its slime for proof. Never knew anyone else that was interested since then though."

Okay, that seemed like important information. He quickly filed it in the notes section of his mind's database. "So you should know a bit about the Slime boss, right? What'd the adventurer say about it?"

Mr. Zwaldar racked his brain. "It's been a long time," he admitted after a while. "I can't remember her saying much—she was a quiet fellow—but I do recall something about ferns. That was an odd conversation…"

Ferns? "What about ferns?"

"I don't know." The assistant guild master shrugged apologetically, shooting Cyrus a sorry smile. "She said ferns were important. That's the only thing that stuck to me. Ferns, toxic goo, and the Slime King." His smile turned wry. "Perhaps you could connect the dots then?"

* * *

Ferns. Ferns were going to be his secret weapon, and he didn't even know how his secret weapon worked.

The one piece of information he got from the guild, and its about the plant he trained with last night. Coincidence? Probably. He still needed to figure out how it was going to help with his upcoming battle.

Cyrus looked down at his clothes. His shirt was fine, thank the heavens, but his pants—well, shorts in this case?—had certainly seen better days. There were big jagged holes in the front of his shins, his upper legs frayed but sort of intact, and all in all, it looked like a fashion statement gone wrong. Maybe Mr. Zwaldar had disclosed some information because of how he looked. I mean, he did look barbaric. Who'd trust a bandit-looking guy?

…But that was odd. The whole front of his pants was soaked with slime, so much so his thighs than anything. And yet, it was the least affected area from the toxic. Why?

Ferns, ferns, toxic goo, he was crawling on the forest floor and his clothes were downright disastrous, he needed a bath, ferns, ferns, toxic goo—

And a lamp's flame appeared over his head.

"I got it!" he shouted, and headed back to Merisma Forest in a hurry.

He'd thank Mr. Zwaldar later.

* * *

His mother looked both horrified and disgusted, covering her nose and mouth when he entered the house. "Cyrus!" Mrs. Chevalier exclaimed. "What happened to you, child? I was worried sick when you came home so late yesterday, but why…why does it look like you were just wrestling with a werebear?"

"Long story, Mom."

She viewed him with a critical eye. Her son, ragged for wear, had twigs in his hair, dirt lines on his face, grass stains on his clothes (or what was left of his clothes), and was holding two large handfuls of…ferns? "What are those for, Cyrus?" she asked, motioning to the plant.

"Stuff. I needed to collect them for a job. Is it possible for dad to crush all of them into a paste by tomorrow?"

"Paste?" Mrs. Chevalier hesitated, but nodded soon after. Her son always seemed to pick the odd jobs. "Alright, I'll see to it that he does. Off you go to the bath then, and Cyrus, _please_ do something about that smell you're giving off. It's worse than a load of horse dung."

* * *

He was set. Mended clothes, an adequate weapon, and a tub-load of resistance against his enemy. Great, and not in that sarcastic, ironic way he'd been saying lately. It was actually great. Things were actually going good.

Now, all he needed left was to figure out how to fight the Slime King. It'd be dark, he established, and he'd be equipped with limited sight. How was he supposed to kill an enemy he couldn't even see? Just blindly swing and hope he hit his target?

Great.

Not.

Cyrus stared at the ceiling of his room, sighing as he tossed ideas out the window. Bring a lamp to the fight? Next thing he knew, he'd have made a high-calibre forest fire. What about those miner headlight things he heard from his father? No mines around the area equals to no miners equals to no miner headlight things. Magic spells? Knew next to none—just the minor first aid or so—and hiring someone to do it would cost much more than he could afford.

So that left him to fight in the dark. There was no way out of that.

And that led him back to the first question: how was he going to fight the Slime King?

Groaning, he closed his eyes in hopes of drifting away to sleep. Who knows? Maybe the answer would come to him like a dream, the way it comes to those seers and all. That'd be cool, changing his preferred occupation to 'prophecy-seeing man'. He was sure there'd be a lot of opportunities for _that_ field.

His mind was starting to shut down into sleepland when a loud noise jolted him awake. It sounded like a stray cat digging through the trash. Cyrus sighed. He couldn't even get a good night's rest now, couldn't he?

He grabbed his coat on his way out of the house, and it was only until he was halfway towards the cat that he realized he forgot to bring a lamp. Cyrus inwardly cursed. His brain always shut down when laden with sleep.

Turning around, he started to get the lamp when he froze. Wait a minute. This would be good practice for tomorrow's battle, wouldn't it? Brawling with felines in the dark wasn't at all elegant, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

Instead of picking up the light source, he went to grab his sword. No, he wouldn't slice it dead—animal abuse was a cruel thing—but perhaps he could scare it away with a flick of his hand.

Which was why he was currently stalking towards it without making a sound, instead of screaming at the cat to shoo it away. The metal clanging led him to where the cat was hiding, and he raised the blunt side of his sword, bringing it down in a dull thud right beside the animal.

Except it wasn't an animal.

No, it was something else. Some _one_ else.

"Who-?" Cyrus's words died in his throat as something flicked through the darkness. It nicked his cheek, and when a sting pricked his skin, he realized it was a blade. A dagger, it seemed, with its short reach and small body.

He touched his cheek, stained with the tiniest lick of blood. Blood. Was someone trying to kill him?

Another swipe headed towards him, and this time, Cyrus rolled over to dodge. He heard them mumble under their breath, "I missed."

They _were_ with killing intent. Well, this was an unwanted surprise. It was time to get serious then.

Rushed with adrenaline, Cyrus charged towards the voice and swung his sword around, meeting thin air as it collided with nothing. His assailant made another attempt—this time to his neck, with how the blade pierced the air, and Cyrus duck and tried to trip them over their feet. Again, he hit nothing.

So that only meant one thing: if the attacker was supposedly right in front of him and dodged a ground attack, then they were airborne.

Cyrus changed gears and directed his foot upwards, slicing diagonally. He felt something get caught and quickly twisted around to hook his lower leg around it. With a sharp thunk, he brought it down and it crashed to the ground. A muffled cry ringed out. Metal skidded away to a distance. They were unarmed.

"You," he started, placing his hands on their legs to prevent them from kicking—or escaping, for that matter. "Who are you?" An idea entered his head. "Were you the one that I saw in Merisma Forest?"

"What? Who I am is none of your business," they hissed. Their voice sounded androgynous, both boy and girl, and was laced with pain. "A beggar looking for food."

"A beggar with a dagger?" Cyrus pressed.

"A beggar with self-defense."

He knew they were lying. "And so you thought the best course of action was to kill me. That instead of calmly explaining why you were digging around the trash, you should've attacked me."

It wasn't a question. The hooded figure knew that, but answered as such. "After a series of unfortunate events," they said, "I don't take precautions anymore. You can never tell if someone is sneaking up on you until you hear their breath up your neck and their arms are around your skin."

That caused Cyrus to falter, his grip lessening. While he wasn't filled with any empathy of the sort, sympathy entered his veins, because he wasn't one to deny anyone of the benefit of the doubt. Even if it seemed like they were lying. Besides, those…implications weren't positive in the slightest.

They noticed his hesitance and took it to their advantage. Slipping out of his hold, they slithered away and stood to flee. Cyrus saw the limp in their step and scrambled after them.

"Hey! You're hurt," he called out. 'Did I do that to you?' was the unspoken question.

It made them freeze, look over their shoulder, and stare at Cyrus with hidden eyes. Their voice, their next words, caused Cyrus to shiver more than the cold night could.

"You're right. I'm hurt," they said, and their gaze seemed to send an icy glare. "But I told you before: it's none of your business."

With that, they melted away into the darkness.

* * *

It came to him as an epiphany, when he was scrubbing the floors with a mop, and Grisha thought it was a good idea to try and kick his behind. Cyrus had tried to dodge, and fell into the water trough instead, the splash resonating throughout the stables and causing Barty to appear in a moment's notice.

The older man came just as Cyrus got out of the container, head to toe drenched in water. "Oi, Chevalier, that thing ain't for bathing, you know," Barty deadpanned. Grisha was neighing in his annoying horse-laughter-combination. Cyrus sighed.

"I know, Sir. Grisha took me off-guard."

"That old stallion? You could hear his neighs from a mile away! Even if it darkness was creeping up on me, I'd be able to tell where that dumb horse is."

"Yeah, I guess I was pretty out of it-" He did a double take. "Wait, what? What did you say?"

Barty grunted, rolling his eyes as Grisha tried to headbutt him. "He ain't the subtlest tool in town. You'd hear his hooves clopping over the pave before you can even see him."

That was it. That was it! Cyrus grinned and patted a hand on Barty's shoulder, who gave him an unamused stare. "That's it!" he said, echoing his thoughts. "It'd be loud enough for me to hear it before I see it!"

"Hey now, hey now, I don't know why you're so jolly all of a sudden, but there ain't no reason why you need to wipe your hands all over my _new, clean shirt_."

Cyrus backed away instantly. "Sorry, Sir."

"Sorry isn't gonna cut it, Chevalier. My _wife_ just washed this the other day."

"…I'll dock this from my paycheck."

* * *

By noon of Day Three, he was completely ready. Leather boots strapped, cloak equipped, clothes fern-smeared, wind at his back, sword at his side; he looked like a wannabe hero that made a serious mistake with their paint job.

So creeping back into Merisma Forest, he followed the day old slime trail to where King Slime was, and felt absolutely ready to take on whatever monstrosity he was missioned to face.

* * *

Alright, the nerves were starting to set in.

It wasn't _his_ fault that the forest was so dank and dreary. It was like he was treading into a darkmane's den, almost expecting a flock of bats and cobwebs to hit his face any moment now.

…Although he wouldn't really want that to happen. That'd be an experience he wouldn't want to relive.

Shuffling through the plants—and he swore one of them was deadly nightshade; he better not get any rashes later, or so help him—he used his boots to find the trail. It was harder to see it than before; the slime caked to the ground and ran thinner than yesterday's. It didn't smell as bad either, so smell was a no-go.

In the darkness, Cyrus had to rely on his hearing as his main sense. He learned that whenever he touched the toxic ooze with slime repellent, there'd be a fizzle, like cinders crackling in a fire, before the sound died out. It was his best bet in knowing where he was going, and it wasn't as if he got hurt doing so. The ferns just seemed to…shield his clothing from the slime, as if glass to water droplets—though he constantly had to reapply it for it to work.

In fact, the bottom of his shoes were still intact, even with all the slime touching he'd been doing. Cyrus felt a burst of pride knowing the figured out the fern's properties by himself. Mr. Zwaldar helped though. He really did need to thank that man later.

Soon, he got back to the clearing he was in yesterday. The Slime King was gone, as expected, but a new—yet stale—track emerged. From the looks of it, it wasn't too recent. Give or take half a day. The Slime King must've stayed the night after he had left, and went away in the early morning.

The good news? …Well, he couldn't really think of any good news. The bad side was plenty: one, the new terrain might serve to the slime's advantage than to his own; two, he didn't know how far it went and if he could find it before sunset; and three, it went deeper into Inner Merisma.

And Inner Merisma meant less light.

Right now, Cyrus could at least see outline of things. He could see the shape of a tree and sidestep just in time to avoid running into it. He could see his own hands, his own sword. He could see the _ground_.

But the inner of Inner Merisma would probably make him sightless. Whether he closed his eyes or not would make no difference.

So he either had to draw the Slime King out into a place with slight light, or fight it practically blindfolded.

What wonderful choices.

* * *

Thankfully, the gods took pity on his soul and he didn't have to choose one or the other. Which was nice, because there really wasn't a catch-slash-downside to it. King Slime's booming reverberated throughout the forest, thumping loud and getting closer to where he was. He hid behind one of the trees in a flash.

 _Wub. Wub. Wub. Wub._

Wow. Sounded heavy.

Peering over to catch a glimpse of his target, Cyrus's eyes widened as he saw how huge King Slime really was. Sure, he knew it was at least three wheelbarrows in width, but he didn't know how _tall_ it was. In wheelbarrow measurement, it was five units high.

Three wheelbarrows in length and width by five wheelbarrows in height. No one needed basic math to know that was huge.

But that wasn't the only memorable thing about the Ruler of the Slimes. Yes, it was red, and yes, it was true to its name and had a crown atop its head, but it downright stunk. Bad. All the dirt and muck he crawled into must've masked the full extent of the Slime King's smell, but now that he smelt it in all its true glory—

Gods, he wanted to puke.

This was bad. He hadn't prepared himself to deal with this. What was he supposed to do now? Clog up his nose and not breathe for the next ten minutes? Cyrus didn't know how long he could hold with breath, but with the addition of fighting and anything that came in the package, he knew he couldn't do it for that long.

As he has contemplating on how to get closer to the slime, a leaf from the overhead branches fell down. Cyrus didn't notice it until there was a low rumble and the Slime King _reached up, enveloped the leaf with its ooze, and swallowed it whole before wub-wub-wubbing again like nothing had happened._

By the scales of the Divine Dragons.

* * *

He was in a stump while on a stump, listening to the roaring thunder known as King Slime. Nothing was going as planned. Cyrus tried throwing stones towards it, and they all had been swallowed down. He tried knocking down its crown—seeing as it was the only thing that didn't slide down its innards and could prove to be its weak point—but when it fell on the ground, the Slime King just ran over it and, um, elevated it back to its head through diffusion. Needless to say, Cyrus had almost emptied his lunch then and there.

It was like it didn't have a weak point, but Cyrus had an inkling on what he had to do. There was no such thing as an enemy without a weak point, after all. One of the things his teachers had drilled into his head was that 'even if it seems like everything is hopeless, reassess everything, find an opening, and plan it from there.'

Through his observations, he concluded the slime was slow. Oh so very slow, moving half a foot per second. If he had walked alongside it, he'd overtake it in that second alone, with its insistent need to swallow everything that was in its way.

In addition, it avoided all the ferns.

Bingo.

Out of his stump and off of the stump, Cyrus was currently dipping any large stones he found with his fern paste, hiding amongst the plant, and staring as King Slime travelled through the forest. If this didn't work, then he had another idea up his sleeve. Which was good, having a Plan B, though he really didn't want to try it out when worst came to worst…

Ah, screw it. He knew he'd have to do it later—because the potency of the fern paste didn't seem to affect the slime as much as natural ferns—but he didn't want to subject himself to that horror. It was disgusting.

So with a heavy heart, he threw the stones and watched them sink into the slime. They sizzled and died out, and the stone descended down the slime's body. Once again, they were normal stones. Cyrus let out a breath of disappointment.

This was going to stink, and he was going to be the unfortunate victim.

* * *

An empty bottle of fern paste later, Cyrus was walking foliage.

Covered entirely in fern, he looked like one of those forest creatures he had heard stories about. Gramoeba, if he recalled correctly? They were literally moving grass and leaves and twigs that looked like scarecrows. Except in his case, he was strictly ferns. So Fernamoeba. Fernoeba. Femoeba. Feramoeba. All those terms sounded horrible, but as long as it proved his point…

Even his sword was laced with fern leaves, although some were peeling off because he didn't have enough paste. Tragic, yes, but he hoped he'd be done with this before the lack of resources backfired on him. And with the lack of sun to tell him what time it was, the sooner, the better.

Cyrus creeped forward, minimizing as much noise as he could while shuffling towards King Slime. It didn't notice him, preoccupied with the barrier he laid out—a curve of ferns that blocked immediate passage—and without further thought, he swung down his sword on the Slime King.

The reaction was instantaneous: it cried out in agony and backed away from the sword. Roaring noise burst Cyrus's eardrums more than its movement ever could. The cut he made wasn't regenerating as quickly, unlike what happened with the paste, and Cyrus grinned as he swung his weapon again.

Gotcha.

The ferns weren't disintegrating, more true to his window analogy than the paste was. Slime gunk flew around, hitting his chest, stomach, and legs, as the slime's screams increased in decibel. Holy crap, he should've made earplugs too. Those shrieks were insane.

And ugh. The smell was permeating through the air. Not as bad as it had been—Cyrus made an impromptu fern mask in an attempt to neutralize the stench—but bad nonetheless.

He better finish this fast.

Taking a deep breath, he gained momentum and ran into the Slime King, forcing himself through the goo. King Slime tried to creep away with its foot a second speed, but Cyrus wouldn't have any of that. Gods, he was about to lose two of his senses like this. Like hell he was going to fail _now_.

He continued wading through and dragging his sword across, doing his best to ignore the awful screech and fetor of the slime. It was an odd experience, because there weren't any evident consequences happening to him as he shouldered through it, barring slower movement. The ferns were doing an excellent job shielding him from the harm of the toxic ooze. In comparison, King Slime sounded like it was being ripped inside out—which was what was happening to it, actually.

Cyrus cringed. He wasn't going to sleep tonight, was he?

Slow but sure, he made it to the other side, slicing the Slime King into imperfect halves. The crown fell and tumbled over to the undergrowth. Half a minute later, as Cyrus disentangled himself from the muck, the jelly-like slime dissolved into a liquid before disappearing into thin air. Even the slime that was on him was gone.

Ah, Cyrus thought. The crown held _regeneration powers_ , but he had to _kill it_ to, well, kill it. Made sense.

Checking himself over for wounds, he found next to none. There were a few frayed holes in his seams, but they could be fixed and mended with ease. His sword wasn't in bad shape either; just the occasional splinter here and there, and a finger-length hole in the middle, where the fern leaves didn't stick well.

He picked up the crown and turned it over; while it held nothing of important, it wasn't made out of flimsy material. Not a true crown, but it certainly wasn't those fake plastic ones. Perhaps it'd sell for good money.

And speaking of money, he had a mission to return from, a woman to greet, and an assistant guild master to talk to.

* * *

The woman was already waiting for him in the guild, right at home with her feet on the table as she filed her nails. When he entered, she looked up with a wrinkled nose and pretended to wretch. "What's that smell?" she muttered.

"That would be me," Cyrus said, not sounding the least bit proud. He had changed out of his fern-covered clothing (in the expanse of his mother's comfort) and did his best to wash off the stench before he came, but he guessed some of it still clung to him.

"Oh," she said, eyebrows arched. Though it was more in surprise that he was there instead of having her question answered. "You actually survived."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

She waved her hand in dismissal. "Good to see you're alive, newbie. You kept me waiting."

"I just went to Inner Merisma; wore ferns for protection; pushed my way through the Slime King in all its disgusting glory; killed it semi-blind, semi-deaf, and barely breathing; and you're telling me I kept you waiting?"

"Because you did." She quirked an eyebrow. "I said by sunset."

"It _is_ sunset. It just started," he pointed out.

"And I said _by_ sunset. Which means _before_ sunset." Scoffing, she crossed her arms. "But I'll be nice and give it to you, since you did kill the slimy bastard by then. I'll let the travel time slide. Take it as a favour, newbie."

He stared. "Thanks."

"So, where's your proof that you killed it, huh?"

"Right here." The crown was placed on the table, and the woman let out a sound of approval. She was about to open her mouth again when Cyrus beat her to the punch. "I have a question though—two, in fact. Was Mr. Zwaldar with you in this mission? And was the stray-cat-beggar part of it too?"

An irritated frown appeared on her face. "You've got nerve asking your employer that, newbie."

"So they were."

She sighed, shrugging. Her voice adopted a flat, disinterested tone. "Alright then, I'll humour you: how ever did you find out?"

"For starters, Mr. Zwaldar isn't the assistant guild master. Mr. Hartonel is. And don't tell me it was a temporary shift or whatever; the guild would've posted that up with the notifications."

"Congratulations," she drawled. "Figured that one out yourself, didn't you?"

Cyrus rubbed the back of his neck. Red flooded his cheeks. "Actually, I just thought about it this afternoon—when I was getting back from King Slime's death. When all the slime disappeared and the crown was the only proof left, I realized Mr. Zwaldar lied to me. I don't know how much he lied about, maybe the entire story, but he did help me with the fern hint."

The woman went back to looking at her nails. "Mm."

"And then yesterday night. When someone attacked me, I got another hint. They said they couldn't tell if someone was sneaking up on them until they got too close. It was a subtle clue, but my work with Barty's the next day made me realize what they were trying to say."

"Right. Go on."

"…I think that's it. I don't get the connection between you and the first figure I saw in Merisma Forest, but…"

She swung her legs off the table. "Ookay, I get it. Good for you, newbie." Snatching the crown up, she motioned for him to follow. "You get half marks, but that isn't important. I'll tell you you're mostly right, at least."

"You didn't answer my question."

"You didn't ask one. Get your facts straight."

With no other room for discussion, they bounded over to the counter, where Mr. Zwaldar was. He set down his book to adjust his glasses, and laughed when he saw who it was. "And what pleasure do I owe the two of you today?" he asked, smiling sweetly.

The woman rolled her eyes. "Cut the crap, Lazward. We're done here. Get everyone's asses out and let's go." 'Lazward' mock saluted and went to the backroom. Cyrus was now confused and sort of terrified. Who were these people? What did they want?

Well, he knew what _he_ wanted. "I want an explanation."

She glanced at him, fingers twitching before they reached up to her hood. Pulling it down, Cyrus was greeted to sharp, bright red eyes that narrowed at him. He gaped; features soft, pale, and still packed with a bit of baby fat, he thought the mysterious woman—no, teenage _girl_ —was undeniably pretty.

If only that scowl of hers didn't mar her skin.

"Y-you look younger than me!" he spluttered. Eyes widened like saucers while hers narrowed.

"Are you seventeen?"

"Going on eighteen."

"Then you're only a few months older, newbie. Don't kid yourself." Her mouth twisted into a grimace. "And stop gaping, for Pete's sake. You're embarrassing."

"You're _my_ age!"

"I can't believe this," she grumbled. "You're acting like a child."

His eyebrows furrowed. Leaning forward to scrutinize her, he really couldn't believe they were the same age. Her voice and the way she carried herself made her more mature for what he expected seventeen year old girls to be. "I'm just surprised. I thought you were much older. At least twenty, twenty-one."

"Space, newbie. I didn't tell you to be up my face." Her snappy tone drew him away. At the same time, Lazward had come back with two others in tow: a blond boy Cyrus assumed was Odin, and another girl. "Good, we're all here. Are you lot ready to go?"

They replied in affirmative. The girl turned back to Cyrus.

"Now, you said you wanted an explanation?" she asked. He nodded. "Then go back home, grab everything you think you'll need to go on a road trip, meet us up here as soon as the rooster crows for morning, and I'll give you an explanation."

She turned on her heel and left, in a way much like she did three days ago. This time, Cyrus didn't stare after her, facing her companions instead for an answer. And this time, he wasn't leaving until he got an outline of a solid response.

Lazward gave him a crooked grin. "You'll have to forgive Luna. She storms off quite often with the vaguest instructions. But she _was_ telling the truth. If you want us to explain what's going on, meet us here with a pack of necessities."

The blond boy spoke up, words constructed in an odd way of speech. "You'll wish to send any beloveds your salutations as well. Your travelled paths will be ill-defined and may lock you onto the roads for months to come."

"But why? Nothing here makes sense," Cyrus said, at the peak of his exasperation. "Why do I need to say goodbye? Why do I need to gather my things? Am I going somewhere, is that why? Where am I going then? Do you truly believe that I'll follow the four of you to gods know where without _any_ idea on what's going on? That's crazy. You're crazy."

They looked at each other. There was a minute of silence before someone spoke up. And when they did, he bristled.

The other girl, with striking blue hair and eyes that reminded him of winter frost, spoke in a familiar voice. But that wasn't why he froze. It was because of the words she said that stupefied him into thinking, 'yes, I was right; these people are out of their minds':

"But we do believe you'll follow us. Because you are a knight, and you're going to help us save the world."

* * *

 **This concludes prologue-introduction. Please f** **eel free to share your thoughts, or point out any errors you see!**

 **And thanks for taking the time to read it :D**


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